Entwined

I snap out of my heartbroken daze and turn to Lizard.

“You look upset.” He looks at me, then at Thuli’s retreating back, then back at me. “Did he say something to you? He’s an idiot.”

I sigh. “No, he didn’t say a word to me. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

He gives me a funny look, then glances at Thuli again. “I don’t know about that.”

“Hmm?”

“You said he doesn’t know you’re here. But…” He frowns. “He’s staring at you.”

There goes my heart again. Connie, come on. How many times do you want to be disappointed? “Don’t be stupid,” I croak, a terrible mixture of hope and doubt rising inside me. “He’s probably staring at you.” But I turn around anyway, just in case. And my breath catches in my throat. Thuli is staring at me. Not in the idle way he looked at me at the tuck-shop. He’s looking at me with… I can’t believe it… curiosity.

I could stand there forever, but with superhuman strength I tear my gaze away and start walking on shaky legs. I imagined it. I must have.

“Are you friends with him?” asks Rakwena, with unmistakable distaste.

“No.” Wow. Wow. Wow. “Is he gone?”

“Yes.”

Once we reach the usual place, I lean back against the wall to catch my breath. I’m being silly. Thuli wasn’t looking at me, he was looking at Black Lizard. Obviously. Somehow that thought is comforting – it makes so much more sense. I turn to Rakwena and notice the bag slung over one shoulder. It’s a basic schoolbag, black with green piping, and, like everything else on him, it’s spotless.

“I don’t understand how you go all day without getting any dirt on you,” I marvel as he leans against the wall beside me.

“Simple. I don’t roll around in the sand like my peers.”

Serves me right for mentioning it. And, like a glutton for punishment, I go on. “Your pants look like they were ironed five minutes ago. Your shoes are still shiny. And I’m sure you get your hair cut every day.”

“Every week,” he corrects me with a slow smile. “I like being clean. I know you kids find that strange, but you’ll grow out of it eventually.”

Aaaahhhh! I should punch him; he’s begging for it. “Does your Mummy do your laundry?” I tease.

His face closes up and his voice turns cold. “My mother isn’t here.”

I’ve struck a nerve. I want to ask, but I’m afraid of the answer. “Is she…”

“Dead? Not in the way you’re thinking.” Before I can ask what that means, his brow creases in concern. “How are you these days, Connie? Feeling all right?”

I look at him through narrowed eyes. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just asking. And the telepathy? Getting easier?”

“Every day.” I consider telling him how erratic my new ability has been lately, but I’d rather keep quiet until he reveals his secret, otherwise I’ll never get it out of him. “How are you? Somehow I didn’t think flu would get the better of you.”

His eyes flicker. Ah. Not flu, after all. I didn’t think so. “I’m only human.”

It’s only then that it occurs to me that he might not be – human, that is. Scary thought. Ghosts and monsters are one thing, but it’s bad manners to pretend to be human if you’re not. “Are you?”

He laughs out loud for a long time.

“What, then? Tell me what’s different about you.”

He’s quiet for a while, hands in his pockets, looking at me with a contemplative expression on his face.

“Rakwena!” The suspense is agonising. “You promised!” I push him lightly.

He reaches up to pull my hand away from his shirt, and there it is again. The spark. This time there’s no doubt about it – I can see the blue light fizzle between our hands. The spark is gentle, sending tingles up my arms as he lowers my hand, and it disappears when he releases me. “You’ve wrinkled my shirt.” He frowns, irritated.

I survey the damage. There’s an almost invisible crease near one of the buttons. I roll my eyes. “Sorry. But you’re stalling and it’s not cool. Come on, out with it!”

His hand snakes back into his pocket. My heart is pounding. It’s so quiet without the usual thoughts in my head that my heartbeat sounds like the bass in a house track. When Rakwena’s hand reappears, it’s clutching something flat and clear and… utterly unremarkable.

“A protractor?” I shriek. “Don’t tell me your secret talent is advanced geometry.”

He laughs, and I finally lose my temper.

“You’re not going to show me, are you? You just said yes to get me off your back.”

Rakwena doesn’t answer. He holds up the protractor and studies it as if it’s the most fascinating object in the world.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!”

He ignores me. I’m so angry I just might punch him after all. My hands are already forming fists. He’s close enough; I could probably hit his jaw. No, that would hurt my hand too much. His nose?

Something in the corner of my eye begs for my attention. I turn to look, and almost scream out loud. The protractor hovers above Rakwena’s outstretched hand, floating in thin air. It turns around slowly, doing little pirouettes. It looks like a sheet of glass with light leaping around in it. My eyes follow it, then I’m distracted by a tingle in my hand as Rakwena reaches for it. He turns it so my palm is facing up, and then, using whatever the hell he’s using, gently lowers the protractor onto my hand.

For a moment I’ve lost the ability to speak. Finally I raise my head and look into Rakwena’s eyes, and realise in amazement that he’s nervous.

“It’s not that special,” he says softly. “But it has its uses.”

“It’s incredible,” I gasp. “It’s… it’s the most… wow!”

I can tell he’s pleased by my reaction. “You’re easy to impress. A little trick like that.” He rubs the back of his neck like a shy kid who got a girl to look his way.

“That wasn’t a little trick,” I point out. “You didn’t just make it move, you… I don’t know, you made it come alive.” I stare at him, awestruck. “How did you do it?”

He shrugs, takes the protractor and pockets it. “I’ve always been able to do it.”

“How many people know about this? Do your parents know?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

“What about your friends?” I prod. He looks at me, and I remember that he’s not exactly Mr Congeniality. “Oh, sorry. But your parents… are they OK with it?”

“On some level.” He nudges my ribs with his elbow. The spark doesn’t seem to apply when there’s fabric in the way. “What about you?”

“My dad sort of knows, but he’s in denial. And my mother had a good idea, but she died before my gift got stronger.” I frown at him. “Stop changing the subject. I know absolutely nothing about you!”